The Slut Phase & The Emptiness

There was a strange truth I slowly understood. For a normal girl, a low body count might hold some value in society’s eyes. But for a sissy like me, the more experience I had, the more demand I created. My body count that single year alone was already touching three digits. Most of them came from old contacts who kept returning for more, and many became regular, repeated customers who couldn’t get enough of me.

Through Dani, my weekends turned into a non-stop slut marathon. I lived out every filthy fantasy they threw at me. Some days I stayed locked in chastity, other days I was completely free — riding, getting fucked raw, and used in every hole. I wore every costume they wanted: innocent school girl with short skirt and knee-high socks, tight hijab with nothing underneath, seductive secretary, even roleplays where I became their “daughter” or “little sister.” 

Weekend after weekend I was fucked raw and wild. One-on-one sessions that left me sore for days, threesomes where I was spitroasted until my voice was hoarse, foursomes where I was passed around like a toy, and a few bigger parties with Dani where I lost count of how many men used me. I was living the full slut life — no limits, no shame, just pure, filthy pleasure. My body became a playground for strangers, and I gave myself to it completely.

Life felt fast and exciting on the outside. But the moment Daddy messaged and we met, everything else faded into the background. With him I felt real purpose. With him I felt claimed. With him I felt like someone’s girl — not just a weekend whore.

The year passed quickly. I was already making quiet plans in my head about how we would spend Christmas and New Year together. I had even bought a special outfit I wanted to wear only for him. Then one evening Daddy called with a heavy voice.

“Baby girl… I got promoted. But the new position is in a different city. Far away. I have to move soon. I need to go early to set everything up.”

My entire world collapsed in that single phone call.

He tried to soften it, saying we could still meet sometimes, that he would visit when possible, but I knew deep down that it would never be the same. That Christmas and New Year became the darkest, most depressing period of my life. I didn’t go out. I didn’t take any new bookings. Even when old clients texted, I had zero interest. Sex without Daddy felt completely meaningless. I didn’t care about the money, the attention, or the pleasure anymore. I just missed him. I missed him so badly that some days I couldn’t even get out of bed.

I had lived like his wife during those beautiful days in Scotland — wearing his wife’s saree, sleeping in his arms, carrying his loads inside me. Now all of that was gone. The emptiness was unbearable. Depression wrapped around me like a thick, suffocating blanket. I cried myself to sleep almost every single night. My pillow would be wet with tears by morning. I stopped posting on social media. I stopped replying to most messages. I avoided everything that reminded me of the slut life I had been living so freely just weeks before.

I felt completely lost. Directionless. Like the one man who truly saw me as his girl had walked away and taken my purpose with him.

Then one quiet afternoon, when I was lying in bed staring at nothing, my phone lit up with a message from an old number.

It was her.

My saviour angel.

But that part of the story… comes next.